Punch: Punch (100.1891)

138

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHAEIVAEI.

[March 21, 1891.

CONFUSION WORSE CONFOUNDED.

Jones. "Con-found it all 1 Somebody's taken my Hat, and left this filthy, beastly, shabby old Thing instead I"
Brovm. "A—I beg your pabdon, but that happens to be MY Hat!"

KEPT IN THE STABLE.

Head Groom B-lf-r loq,:—■

Kept in.! Yes, by thunder ! Be't prudence or blunder,

Gov's fondness for Tithe, or bad weather, or what,
You 're kept in the stable, though fit, ay, and able

To lead the whole field and to win by a lot.
A hunter I never bestrode half as clever!

Tithe f Pooh ! He's not in it, my beauty, with you.
You've breed, style, and mettle, and look in rare fettle.

If /had to settle, you know what I'd. do !

These gentlemen-riders deem all are outsiders

Save them ; as if gent ever made A 1 jock !
Ah ! Adam L, Gobdon,* poor chap, had a word on

Such matters. I '11 warrant he sat like a rock,
And went like a blizzard. Yes, beauty, it is hard

To eat off your head in the stable like this.
Too long you have idled ; but wait till you 're bridled !

The hunt of the season I swear you won't miss.

It'has been hard weather, although, beauty, whether

'Tis that altogether your chance that postponed,
Or whether Boss Solly committed a folly-

No matter ! A comelier crack he ne'er owned,
Although 'tis I say it who shouldn't. The way it

Has snowed and has frozen may be his excuse ;
But when you're once started, deer-limbed, lion-hearted,

I warrant, my beauty, you '11 go like the deuce.

" A lean head and fiery, strong quarters, and wiry,

A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb,"
That's Gordon's description of Iseult. (All whip shun

When Tiding such rattlers, and trust to the curb.)
That mare was your sort, lad. I guess there '11 be sport, lad,

When you make strong running, and near the last jump.
And you, when extended, look "bloodlike and splendid."

Ah! poor Lindsay Gobdon was sportsman and trump.
Adam Lindsay Gordon, the ardent, horse-loving Australian poet.

I see your sleek muzzle in front! It will puzz'e

Your critics, my boy, to pick holes in you then :
There's howling " Histobicus,"—he's but a sorry cuss.!

Weg, too, that grandest of all grand old men ;
He's ridden some races ; of chances and paces,

Of crocks versus cracks he did ought to be judge.
He sees you are speedy ; when Moeley sneers " Weedy,"

Or Lab doubts your staying, Weg knows it's all fudge !

We 're biding our time, lad. Your fettle is prime, lad;

Though we 're frost-bound now, open weather must come,
At least after Easter : and, beauty, when we stir,

And forge to the front, lad, we '11 just make things hum.
In spite of much ruction concerning Obstruction,

I wish—m a whisper—-we'd started before,
And, forcing the running, discarding all cunning,

Romped in—as we will—'midst a general roar !

MORE IBSENITY.

Ghosts at the Royalty. "Alas, poor Ghosts!" A shady piece.
" No money taken at the doors" on this occasion, which is making a
virtue of necessity. This being the case, Ghosts was, and, if played
again will be, witnessed by an audience mainly composed of " Dead-
heads." Lively this. The Critics have spoken out strongly, and
those interested in this Ibsenity should read the criticisms pre-
sumably by Mr. Clement Scott in The Telegraph and Mr. Moy
Thomas in The Daily Hews. Stingers ; but as outspoken as they
are true and just in all their dealings with this lbsenian craze.

" Lbs o18eaux."—Mrs. Ram says she pities any unfortunate man
whose wife has a fearful temper. She knows one such husband who
quite quails before his wife, " and I'm not surprised," adds Mrs. R.,
"for 1 know her, and she's a regular ptarmigan."

The Coming Census.—Cabxyle said, "The population of the
British Empire is composed of so many millions, mostly fools.
Will the Census be taken on the First of April ?